Sell My Soul
by Vampiric Hyde
Summary: Awaiting the dawn one long, sleepless night, lost in torment, waiting for the light to rise so that the circle may begin again. Lucius Malfoy fic... Also a songfic done to "Sell My Soul" by Our Lady Peace.


Sell My Soul  
  
Author's Note: My first Lucius fix! *hugs Lucius* The song Sell My Soul is by Our Lady Peace… My song! Don't own Lucius either… Or do I? *cue suspense music* Right… SO anyway, like I said, first short at a Lucius fic… Love 'im. ;)  
  
  
"How do you feel?  
How do you hate?  
How do you wake up with that  
Smile that's on your face?"  
  
Midnight had passed long ago, yet sleep still managed to elude Lucius Malfoy. Standing beside the sole window in his bedroom, he gazed out the window distantly, his eyes no longer focused on any one object. He'd seen it all many times before, had spent many sleepless nights in front of the window. Always staring out into space, always looking into nothing.  
This had become routine, and he accepted it in the manner that he accepted everything that occurred in his life. He took it as it was, not mentioning it to anyone unless it would somehow profit on the outside. Whatever happened was what happened, and if it couldn't be fixed with money, then it was to be accepted. There was no use in playing with fate.  
His face was impassive, his eyes unreadable. From the outside, he looked as he always did. Others saw him as cold and ruthless; he knew this and used it to his advantage. In fact, he'd always used it to his advantage… If advantage was the right word to use.  
Beneath the cold exterior he was as he always was, but as no one saw. Beneath the rigid cover of his face, even beneath the superficial level of thought, his deeper mind worked within itself, questioning and doubting. It had always been like that. As far back as he could remember he had always hidden anything emotionally extensive. He'd always been cold—so they said.  
He was as used to what they thought of him as he was to his own behavior. Honestly, he didn't see how they could be as they often were. He saw them laugh, he say them smile, and he wondered. How could they do that?  
How, he wondered, was it possible to expose oneself to the world? How could one put ones inner feelings on the line to be crushed? At one time, when he'd been much younger, he'd not bothered to hide his feelings. He'd been free.  
The thought caused something in his mind to twitch minutely, but he silenced it. These thoughts had always been with him, and though they had seemed to be getting somewhat stronger lately, he was used to keeping them below.  
After all, what did it matter if they thought he was emotionless? In a way, it was better. They couldn't hurt him that way. They left him alone. If they left him alone, then he was free of their burden. Their silly, senseless burden of their day-to-day lives and their day-to-day sharing of emotion.  
In the long run, he'd seen himself that it was safer to wear a mask of indifference. If that wasn't true, he'd been going about life the wrong way for years, and… No. It wasn't true. Couldn't be true. Everything that he believed had to be correct, because he was all right.  
All right in some sense. Some things hurt, but the pain was okay. Sometimes the pain was good. Hell, in some situations it was necessary. If it was used correctly, it was beneficial, and Lucius knew how to make pain beneficial.  
Maybe he hadn't always been completely closed, but it had been a long time. He remembered apathy from his school days, so it had quite definitely been a long while. As of yet he hadn't died, hadn't been attacked by people who hated him, and hadn't killed himself, so he was doing something right.  
He wondered about the people who allowed their true selves to be seen. Why did they feel the need to do that? They ended up with more pain then they started with, and always claimed to wish for less pain. In his opinion, they'd be better off keeping quiet.  
That was his view, though, and he would keep it for himself. It worked. Yes, it worked. That was why he was alive, that was why they all feared him. They couldn't touch him, because they showed emotion while he remained disinterested.  
  
"Out on the moon   
If I was an astronaut  
Could I get back to you?"  
  
There were few things in life, Lucius had found, that could be enjoyed. Next to nothing, in fact, and what was found often slipped from the grip of anyone who even tried. There was no sense in any emotion, because it led to failure.  
Take love, for example. Love was superficial, an emotion that only lasted for a short while. Any sort of promise of dedication shattered it, and anything that seemed the slightest bit off would cause it to topple. Then there were situations where a person could be drastically in love, but the person whom he loved absolutely hated him. If she refused to have anything to do with him, then he could do nothing. No amount of emotion could bring her to him. Love was a fickle creature.  
Without realizing what he was doing, Lucius raised his upper lip in the sneer that now came so naturally. The mere thought of love was a burden in itself. To think that at one time… At one time there had almost, and he…  
Sickening. It was sickening because it had to be. Anything that felt like that and worked like that was wrong. Why did people insist on writing volumes on love? Foolery. That was all that it was.  
Love. Why would anyone need love? He hadn't felt love, not even from Narcissa. The feeling was undoubtedly mutual, but what of it? She had wanted it. She had pushed for it.  
In the back of his mind, he wondered about her. At one point, he had been somewhat closer to her. At one point, there had been—sad as it sounded now—hope. Hope. After what he'd just been thinking about love that seemed ridiculous, but he knew it to be the truth. In his mind, he could admit to the truth. In his mind, he could think whatever he wanted and be safe. He could laugh at the world.  
It was possible that he could have loved Narcissa, that maybe she could have loved him… But they had destroyed that. She had been strong-willed, and was now… She was different now. Not broken in any way, just different. Somehow less than she had been, it seemed.  
Or maybe it was just the fact that he could no longer seem to even talk to her. Were they so different that they couldn't communicate? Or, cherish the thought, were they so similar? That had been the problem in the beginning; was it still existent?  
In some absent manner, he wondered if there was anything that could be done to fix the two of them. Mostly, however, he felt that it didn't matter. Love was nothing. Fixing love… Why bother?  
  
"I'm out of my head   
I'm out of excuses so I'm   
Staring at the bed  
And it's you, it's you…"  
  
As much as he thought that and as many times as he ran it through his mind, he couldn't completely convince himself that he had given up. While his thoughts ran further, he felt himself sinking deeper. There was nothing to grab onto, but that was fine. He could allow himself to spend the night thinking, as long as he shook it off before the sun rose.  
That sounded ridiculous. It didn't, and yet it did, and the deeper he thought the more inane it became. Shove away the thoughts with the sunrise, hide everything from everyone. He'd been doing it for so long, and yet he still found himself falling back. Not during the daytime. Oh no, never. Only at night, when he allowed himself the freedom to think.  
Was it healthy to do that? Didn't matter. He wasn't dead yet, so it didn't matter. When he thought, he could feel the pain and could feel it increasing in intensity with every passing month. That was probably his own fault; at least, he thought it was. Pain—he'd always thrived on pain.  
Everyone said that pain was bad, and maybe it was. It certainly didn't feel good; why else would it be called pain? It had its uses, though, and it could be a fuel. Lucius had lived on it; he knew from experience that it worked well enough.  
He'd gone through his entire life on pain. Sometimes pain of others, but that wasn't his goal. Many seemed to see it as his motive, but that was vastly incorrect. While he certainly wasn't above hurting others, he was more interested in something else.  
Hurting himself had always been one of his most striven for goals. Pain could cover up other emotions, blocking them off as nothing. With pain, everything else became unnecessary, and no one needed to know about the rest of it. If they saw cruelty, they wouldn't ever think to look for some sort of emotion.  
No one would believe that he felt anything, and he didn't care any longer—as far as he could tell. At one time, it had mattered. At one time, he had tried. Trying had lead to failure, however, and that had led to unwanted emotion. After that, he had taught himself to conceal each and every feeling aside from anger, and even that showed only occasionally. Apathy was for the best.  
There was no reason to apologize for anything, no reason to give some sort of weak excuse. He did what he did for his own reasons, and no one needed to bother asking why. As long as he knew, it was fine.  
Did he really know, though? He felt a sort of itch in his head and was maddened by it, realizing that this was doubt, this was wonder. He had felt it lurking in his mind recently, and now it was coming up.  
Swiftly, he turned from the window to the bed. As could've been predicted, his eyes fell on Narcissa's sleeping form. She was lying beneath the sheets, her eyes closed in peace. It was the only time she appeared to be truly serene. Whenever she was awake she seemed to be on guard, ready for something.  
What was she hiding? The thought struck him harder than any other had that night. Was she hiding something? What was it? What did she feel? What didn't she feel?  
He didn't know. She never told him, just as he never told her. Was that the problem? When he had been younger, he had sometimes hoped that some day he'd find an individual who he could confide in. He hadn't had anyone like that at home, certainly not his father. If anything, his father had driven him to this… But that didn't warrant thought at the time.  
This was pathetic. Lucius recoiled in disgust at his own thoughts, then immediately found himself faced with them once more. As easily as he could keep emotion away in the presence, he was forced to face them within his mind.  
Out of everyone, he had thought that the woman that he would spend his life with would be able to talk to him. He had always hoped that he'd be able to talk, to rid himself of the thoughts that plagued his mind. Not so, though. Narcissa was as quiet in the way of sentimentality as he was.  
  
"I hold on, I hold on  
I can't let go  
And you don't know how I feel."  
  
No one to talk to. That was what it amounted to, really. He spent his days talking to people who were certain that he felt nothing, then returned home to find a house that was empty with the exception of Narcissa, the two house elves who were left, and perhaps Draco, when he wasn't at school. None of that worked to sooth his mind at all; he couldn't talk to any of them as he would have liked.  
Ridiculous. He wanted to split his forehead open for even allowing these thoughts to exist within himself, but wouldn't do so. If he had lived this long with it, he could live longer.  
Was that true, though? It seemed to have gotten worse lately. As the days continued on, he felt the thoughts becoming more present every day, even when he was talking with others. It was becoming harder to make himself believe that the thoughts were nothing. Day by day, he found that the struggle became even more desperate.  
Again, ridiculous… But true. Even so, he managed to continue without allowing his mind to slip. He was in control, and that was the crazy part. No matter how strong the thoughts became, he would always be able to hide them. He could hide, always had been able to. Sometimes he thought that he really should have been an actor.  
Even if he had wanted to discard the masquerade, he would've been unable. He had grown used to it, and now he lived by it. Every day was staged, and life was nothing but an act. It was like the pain—life to him.  
Did Narcissa understand? He doubted it. He didn't understand her, and she didn't appear to understand him. She didn't seem to hate him—it was possible, though she didn't seem to—but she didn't seem to understand. Did she seem him as the rest of the world did?  
  
"Hold on, I hold on  
I'd sell my soul  
And you don't know how I feel."  
  
Why were the thoughts becoming stronger, more defined? He didn't know, and there was nothing to be done about it. Maybe that was all right. Maybe it was better to wonder. Just like pain was better.  
Thoughts, feelings, emotions… They were meaningless. Had to be meaningless, because there was no way to deal with them… Right? Had to be. Had to be.  
If they were meaningless, though, why was it that they hurt him so badly? He cursed himself for wondering, for even thinking any of this. It was part of him, a large part, and there seemed to be no escape.  
In past years, he had tried to find escape. There had been times when the thoughts had been less prominent. He had been able to push all thoughts away at some points, at certain junctures. Certain blocks of his life had been nearly free of thought.  
Take the years as a Death Eater. Anymore he didn't fully understand why he had done that, why he still held to it. Something to do with… something. What he did know, however, was that those years had been almost completely empty. No emotion. No petty thoughts to push important inform out of the way. Maybe that was why he still held to it.  
If he could push all thought away, then the pain would be all right. He could live on the pain then, and he wouldn't have to worry about these nighttime horrors. If the Dark Lord were to return, then perhaps the emotion would leave. Perhaps it would be all right then.  
  
"Losing my heart  
Losing my pride  
I'd burn our initials  
In the sun if it would shine."  
  
A slight movement from the bed startled him out of his thought. Immediately, he set his guard up; it had become reflex, just as the sneer had. For a moment he thought that perhaps Narcissa had just moved in her sleep, that she was gone. She spoke, however, which shot that idea. "Lucius?" She sounded tired; must've been awakened for some odd reason and had seen him standing.  
"Narcissa," he replied calmly.  
"Come to bed…" her voice trailed off as she drifted back to sleep as easily as she had awakened. At least, he thought that she had gone back to sleep. Maybe she hadn't.  
The thought bothered him, strangely, and he decided that he didn't want to be in there any longer. Wrapping his cloak around him, he walked out of the room and into the cold hallway.  
Corridors of stone didn't seem the ideal setting for a nighttime stroll, but that didn't matter. The entire manor was stone, the entire home—if it was a home—looked to be cold. Stone was suitable for him, anyway, as was the entire home. Cold and aloof, but certainly not without its dark secrets. Empty, as well.  
As he walked down the hall to the library, he heard his footsteps echo through the empty hallways, and the thoughts began to return with the resounding beats. This house… It was lavish, as the lifestyle of the Malfoys was generally considered to be. Lavish, but superficial.  
What did any of it matter? In the end, all of it meant nothing. Some days he wondered why he bothered to go through the days; now he seriously questioned the fact. Why did he? What did it matter? There was no one to impress, no one who really cared. Nothing meant anything anymore. Nothing had ever meant anything.  
It had all seemed to matter at one point in time. There had been some sort of reason, some sort of point. Now there wasn't. Now he hung to these falsities as if they were everything. He lived by a set of rules that meant nothing.  
They all lived by these rules. Narcissa… What did she think of them? And aside from that, why did she keep reappearing? She usually didn't enter his mind with such unhindered frequency.  
Maybe the reason was along the same lines as the one for which his thought seemed to be intensifying. Something was going on. Something was wrong. Nothing could be done about the unknown, and somehow that hurt.  
At times, he wished—sad as it seemed—that he could express his emotions. He wanted to declare what he thought and felt, but was topped. Stopped by what? His own self, something inside. What it was hadn't been completely revealed to him, but it was there and was most definitely a block.  
With that block, there was no feeling allowed to be let out. Much as he sometimes wanted to… Oh, but it had to be better not showing. Had to be.  
  
"I need a fresh start  
I was in heaven until  
This world fell apart."  
  
His eyes caught sight of the door that led to the room his son, Draco, lived in during the summer, when he was at home. Currently he was off at school, his second year there. According to usual standards, he seemed to be doing a fine job—not entirely wonderful, but good enough. Had Lucius ever told him that? He thought so, but wasn't sure.  
What he did know was that Draco received letters daily, often along with a package from his mother. The letters weren't bad, forceful letters. Then again, they weren't gushing with love, either. Oh, hell, at least they were supportive. It was better than what his own father had done.  
Narcissa sometimes seemed to be worried about Draco, though she didn't say an incredible amount about it to Lucius. He'd seen some sort of worry in her face before, maybe almost fear. What was wrong with the kid? Or, rather, what did Narcissa believe to be wrong with him?  
The boy went to school, and hadn't yet been expelled or held back. There had been reports of a few instances of trouble, but those had been understandable. What did Draco think of school? Who knew. He spoke of it, but he was young.nDraco had time to find a way out of whatever would come upon him. Being a child had its advantages, and that was one of them. Time to change, with much more time ahead.  
If he, Lucius, were given time to start again, what would he do? Would he change? Honestly, he wanted to say yes, but—but he wasn't sure if that was correct. If he really did live on pain, then he could never dismiss it entirely. It wasn't worth worrying about, anyway. There wasn't going to be another chance. In life, it was always a matter of plunging ahead and calling whatever path you chose the correct one.  
But… Younger days had been more pleasant days. Days when the Manor had seemed like a palace instead of a tomb. Days when life had been open and ready. That'd been so very long ago, and yet he could almost feel those times as he looked at his son's door. With youth, there was a sort of innocence. As life progressed, the innocence slipped away day by day, piece by piece.  
  
"I'm out on the run  
Out in this empty space  
Since all of this begun  
Well I tried, I tried…"  
  
After a moment, Lucius realized that he had been standing in front of the door to the vacant room for nearly a quarter of an hour, and forced himself to move on. This night wasn't improving, which meant that the day would probably be horrible as well. Most likely it'd be a bit of a struggle to keep from thinking any deeper than was necessary.  
He arrived at the library to find a fire burning slowly. The house elves kept the fires burning all night; it allowed some amount of warmth into the house. They were no where to be seen at the moment, thankfully, so Lucius walked to the fireplace and sat in the armchair beside it.  
This area was marginally warmer than the bedroom had been, but there was no comfort to be derived from that fact. It was still the same, still with the same irritatingly refined atmosphere about it. He had grown to loathe that thought, had grown to abhor the archaic sense that seemed to cover the entire house.  
That was how it had been made, however, and it was what he lived for. To be a Malfoy. This was the life that had been chosen by his father, and he had taken it. The others knew him and feared him. They saw this as power of sorts, and he manipulated it. He knew this, hated it, and continued to do it.  
Ever since his days as a Death Eater, this had been his house, his lifestyle. Previous to joining with Voldemort, he had lived in a different, less threatening home. Now he had the Manor. In a way, he loved it for what it was and what it stood for, but inside he hated it as he often hated himself.  
The Manor was an excellent place to hide those objects that would attract unwanted negative attraction. Usually, the Malfoys were left to themselves, owing to their family line. There had been trouble lately, however, and the intricacy of the house had come in handing.  
Excellent for hiding. Was that a good thing? Sure. Why did he have anything to hide, though? Why did he have to hide these things, keep them away, run from the suspicious eye of certain parts of the Ministry?  
Simple; they were Dark pieces. The items hidden were of the sort that most wizards would cringe at the mention of, and would never think of touching. Having these found would lead to terrible consequences, and Lucius wasn't nearly ignorant enough to allow this to happen.  
Ever since the fall of the Dark Lord, he'd had these belongings. He didn't like to think about all of them, although he did derive some sort of twisted pleasure at the thought of a couple of items. Some had been his tools of trade as a Death Eater; others were objects that had belonged to Voldemort. He still had them, still kept them to give back, or to use if necessary.  
That in itself seemed to be insanity, as did the fact that he actually had gone as far as to try to use one at one point; or, rather, had tried to force someone else to use it. Why would he use it? Why would he want to bring Voldemort back?  
Again, lack of emotion. Always better than emotion. He had been better off with Voldemort there and, in any case, it was simply what he did. It seemed to be something Lucius Malfoy would do, so he did it.  
At one time, he had tried to resist what he thought Lucius Malfoy would do. Anymore, it didn't matter, because he would do whatever he thought should be done. That included doing what his mind protested against. Listening to the mind led to revealing emotions.  
His actions didn't matter. Why should they? There was always something else going on. Always something else.  
  
"I hold on, I hold on  
I can't let go  
And you don't know how I feel.  
Hold on, I hold on  
I'd sell my soul  
And you don't know how I feel."  
  
Gazing intently at the fire, he watched as the flames flickered, reaching into the air and fading back away. He felt like those flames at times. Try to get out, but always find yourself sucked back into that which you're trying to escape. The philosophy of flames.  
How long could he sit in front of the fire wondering? How long could he hold to this act? He didn't know, and wasn't surprised at this fact. He had been holding to it for thirty years at least, so perhaps it would hold for longer.  
He didn't know, though. When it came down to the end, he just didn't know. With everything as it was, it was possible that… No. No, he wouldn't crack, would never drop it. This was what he lived as and would continue to live as. It was what he was. Or, at least, what he had always appeared to be.  
They didn't know, and maybe they would never know. Sometimes that hurt worse than anything; the fact that he felt, but they believed him to feel nothing. He had gotten used to it though, right? Hadn't he?  
Who knew? Who really knew? Sighing deeply, Lucius massaged his temples. There was no use in trying to make the thoughts leave, because they would only clamor even more loudly if disturbed. Better to let them run their course, no matter how distracting or disturbing they were.  
How long until the sun came up? Probably not very. Lucius felt the morning coming on, which meant that he'd have to store the thoughts for the next night. It also meant that this was going to be another sleepless night. Not incredibly shocking.  
Sleep didn't matter; he didn't need much of it. As long as he could remember, he'd been a light and unsteady sleeper. He could skip a few nights a week and be fine. That, of course, depended on how the word fine was taken. Maybe he was fine, maybe he wasn't. By his definition, he was fine.  
  
"Hold on, I hold on  
I can't let go  
And you don't know how I feel.  
Hold on, I hold on  
I'd sell my soul  
And you don't know how I feel."  
  
Looking over to the window, he saw that the sky had begun to take on a lighter shade of gray to its aura. The day was indeed rising. He almost wished that it wouldn't. Insanely, he wished that the night would never end. He wanted to embrace the thoughts, to allow them to continue forever and ever. Maybe there was something to emotion, because it hurt to think of it as being gone.  
There was no room for that, however, and no time. He couldn't stop the sun from rising. Money would buy many things, but not time. There was no way to get out of going to work, not if he was going to continue this day to day masquerade.  
Certainly it seemed possible to cut the act, but he wouldn't do it. It was what he had, maybe all that he had now, and he would stick to it. Day after day.  
After a moment, he stood, took one last look at the fire, and then started back toward the bedroom. He must've been sitting beside the fire longer than he had, but that was fine. He tended to lose track of time during his night vigils.  
As he exited the room, he saw one of the house elves scurry out of one of the rooms. It—wait, it's name was Rabble—froze immediately upon seeing him and bowed. Silly creatures, the house elves. Lucius hated them for their servitude, and kept them for the same reason.  
"Master, sir, I hope you have had an enjoyable night of sleep," the elf said, bowing again.  
"As a matter of fact, I've had none," Lucius snapped, sneering. "It's best for you if you don't bring it up, foolish creature. Back to work!"  
With that, he swept past the elf, leaving it to scramble to wherever it had been going. The encounter left Lucius feeling slightly dazed, almost amazed at the ease with which the words had come out. It felt good to yell, to be angry. It felt good because it hurt.  
He walked back to the room without further interrupted and found that Narcissa was still sleeping. He let her sleep; the longer she was down, the longer he had before he had to clear his mind completely. For the time, he would dress and make himself ready for the day.  
  
"Nothing seems to help  
Nothing seems to work  
Nothing is as beautiful."  
  
Once he was physically ready for the day, he stepped back into the room to collect his materials for work. Not to his surprise, Narcissa was still asleep. She would arise soon, but not yet. For now, she continued to sleep peacefully, unknowing of the world.  
That was the one beauty of sleep that Lucius missed when he remained awake. Escape came with sleep. Escape from thoughts, escape from emotions, escape from life itself. Watching Narcissa as she lay quietly, her hair fallen softly about her serene face, he envied her. It was something that he usually didn't feel in relation to her, but now… Now he did.  
If there was escape, it was away from his grip. The apathy didn't help; the wild bouts into the writhing storm of his mind didn't assuage anything. It was all empty, all the same. Nothing could take him away from it. Even the scarce sleep that he had most times seemed to practically bleed with unease.  
Sometimes the best things in life were those that seemed the simplest. Often, these were the things that were lost to Lucius. At least, in his mind this was so. He wouldn't admit it, but there were things that he wished, circumstances he wanted. None of them occurred, none of them tried to stop him, and so he continued to plow his path of anguish, both for himself and those around him.  
  
"I'm old enough to take all the blame  
For all the mistakes  
All the games and  
All the faces."  
  
It was, of course, his own fault. There was no getting out of that one. Sighing, he started out the door and back to the kitchen. It wasn't yet time to work, and he figured that a glass of water would do him some sort of good. If he was lucky.  
Upon reaching the kitchen and drawing the water, he found that it didn't help at all. Hell, he should've expected that. Water didn't fix anything. If it did, he wouldn't have been there, wishing that it did. The thought in itself was confusing, but true.  
Taking a seat, he looked out at the rising sun. So many shades of yellow, orange, red… So beautiful, many said. And yet deadly. Always deadly. Why was it that everything alluring was also deadly?  
The thought of being the one whom everyone feared had been alluring. The thought of being a Death Eater had been alluring as well. Part of his mind still saw a point of romanticism in it, though he had a feeling that this was a sharply askew view. That image of a dark, mysterious figured remained in his mind, appearing much as it had been when he'd been younger. The truth was that there was no enigmatic character to be wondered over in real life; that was all a lie. The truth was grisly, hateful, almost frightening.  
The romanticism hadn't been everything that had taken him into his life, and he couldn't accept that it was, much as he may have liked to. There was much more to it than he could bear to think about at the moment; much more than he cared to speak of. Even if he had chosen to speak, whom to? Certainly not Narcissa… The boy? No, never. There was no one.  
Again, that wasn't to say that it was anybody's fault aside from his own. It was his alone, and he knew it. That was why he felt pain daily, that was why his mind raced like mad at night and remained comparatively calm the rest of his life. In some ways, it was the reason that he punished himself. In other ways, it was the ends of his punishment.  
Everyone whom he had killed, everyone whom he had wounded… Nothing could be done for them. They had been hurt. Yet for most of them it would pass. Those who had been hurt would forget it. Those who had died would quiet obviously not remember any of it. He, however, was left with the hurt of what he did for an eternity. It was his, and it would last forever.  
There was no turning from it. Now that he had immersed himself so deep, gone so far, it was futile to attempt escape. He was already paying, and the train had already started without plans to stop. He was rushing toward his end, wherever it happened to lay.  
  
"I'm bleeding by myself  
But I'm okay…"  
  
"Circle of hatred, how you mock me…" he mused quietly.  
"What was that, Lucius?" The voice that came form behind him was soft, yet unexpected.  
Quickly, his eyes widening only momentarily, Lucius turned his head. His eyes met with Narcissa's, and he saw some sort of concern in them. Some, but not much. Somehow, he had a feeling that she had basically given up on him long ago. That certainly explained her often overprotective ways with Draco.  
"Good morning," he said in reply, completely ignoring the question. There was no need to answer it; Narcissa didn't care what the answer was, anyway. He wasn't foolish enough to believe that she did.  
"You didn't come to bed," she continued to stand, making the situation seem more awkward than when it had started. He ignored that fact, though--made himself ignore it. As he did, he felt his mind start to haze slightly. That was good--in a sense it was. It meant that he was almost ready to go to work.  
"How good of you to notice." His voice was cold, and though his face remained firm, he cringed inwardly. That was part of what he hated about mornings. Switching from thinking to not could hurt if he listened to himself. Not that he entirely minded it. Part of him, perhaps a larger part than should have existed, took some sort of twisted pleasure in the coldness.  
Lucius turned around, taking his sight back to the window. The sun was almost fully up. As he observed this, he heard Narcissa walk quietly out of the room. Now he wouldn't see her until he returned that night; she was going off to perform whatever tasks she spent her days on. That was all right with him. She didn't sympathize with him. Not that he sympathized with her, but…  
Didn't matter. It really didn't matter. He could deal with everything on his own. He had never needed anyone else, so why start now? This was his mind, his life, so he would take care of it by himself, using his own means.  
  
"I hold on, I hold on  
I can't let go  
And you don't know how I feel  
Hold on, I hold on  
I'd sell my soul  
And you don't know how I feel…"  
  
Looking once more at the sky, he realized that it was nearly time to leave. The thought ran through his mind, which he could almost see hazing over. As he sat, he felt an invisible mist creeping over his entirety, shrouding it from everyone including his own self. He was going to go through the day like always.  
The rage, the hate, everything that he'd been feeling--it'd be gone. Once it was gone, he would live to fight another day, to torment another soul, to spend another sleepless night staring into the blankness of reality with the turmoil of his mind. Again and again, over and over.  
It was as it was, and he would continue with it. As much as he sometimes hated his life, he embraced it and held to it. He wouldn't drop it, wouldn't let it go away. Lucius Malfoy had lived a life with darkness, watching the black vapor seep into everything around him. It had been almost like an infection, and now he lived on it. The vapors of darkness and the pain.  
Perhaps not a pleasant thought, but a true one. Knowing the truth was better than lying to oneself. Lying to others was acceptable, perhaps necessary, but it was best to know the truth of one's own mind… To as much an extent as was possible.  
Keep it from others, feel it for yourself, then hide it away once again. That was life, over and over. It was all he had, all he would ever have, and he knew it, so he held to it. This pain, this silence was his for an eternity. 


End file.
